


First Breath After A Coma

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dick's not thinking straight, Gen, No Fluff, dangerous behavior, just before Grayson, referenced character death, right after forever evil, self destructive behavior, so that's where were at, this one's sad kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Dick's trying to figure out just how he feels about dying, losing Damian, and everything in between.





	First Breath After A Coma

Dick steps into the tent. The tent with no power. Not anymore. Not after Joker and what he did. Not after it all fell apart. This doesn’t surprise Dick, nor does he actually need it. There is still light filtering in from the sun through the open flap, and torn slits in the fabric. The sun is hanging in the sky, lower than he’d like, but high enough for time to think.

That is what Dick needs. Time to think. That is the reason he is staring into this ruined tent and not at the safehouse Bruce tucked him away in trying to recover.

That is a lie. Dick does not need time to think. All he has is time to think. He is trapped. Trapped and hidden away like a prisoner or a jewel. Maybe both. He is supposed to be resting, recuperating from dying.

But if he’s really supposed to be doing that. If Bruce really cares, why is he here now?

That’s a stupid line of thought. Bruce cares. But Bruce must also keep up appearances.  “The world thinks you’re dead, and for now that’s a good thing.” He’d said, “Take this time to recover, Dick. No one will hover over you right now.”

All Dick wants is his family hovering over him. All he wants is everyone to know he’s alive. All he wants is Dami—

He needs to move.

It is not a run, but it should be with the time it takes him to make it from the opening of the tent to the center ring. It is just like he remembers it. Except for the blood. And the shattered pieces laying everywhere. Some of that is his blood. Most of it belongs to his friends, his old family.

Dick cannot linger on the blood. Or the broken, shattered pieces of his former life. But if he cannot linger on it then why is he here? Why did he come to this place? He hadn’t wanted to come back so badly that he’d moved halfway across the country just to get away. And here he was, back.

Joker. He hates the name. Hates the man. Hates what he did to something so pure and good. Dick had never feared clowns growing up. He’d been best friends with them. And then to have that man, that monster show up and destroy something so good? Dick hates it.

He hates a lot of things now. He hates in a way he has not hated in a long time. He burns with rage he has mostly kept in check for years now. He no longer has a reason to keep it in check. The boy he had been protecting is gone. The world believes him dead. Why should he attempt to be anything other than rage and pain and—he should not have stopped moving.

Dick casts his eyes up, up, up to the top of the trapeze. It is broken. Shattered from the fight that took place in here. He wishes he could climb to the top and fly across the span of space between the platforms. He must move or he knows he will go mad.

This is why he has come here.

Bruce has told him he should not move. Should not work out the pain and anger bubbling inside him. But Bruce should know better. Bruce knows the need to move, to fight, to punch, to expel everything. The need to be something other than pain.

“Dammit, Dick you just died.” He’d said.  “I can’t let you go back out, or even practice until we know the extent of your injuries.”

Dick knows the extent. He knows it intimately. Every blow, every lash, every moment of humiliation as he was unmasked in front of the world. He knows the feeling of being trapped in a tomb made of metal and death. And all he needs right now is to feel free of that. Not sit in some safehouse hidden from the world.

He catches sight of the smaller practice trapeze. That will do. It will have to. He needs to move or he’ll go mad. Madder than he already feels.

Is it possible to shake apart at the seams and not move at all? Dick thinks so.

His feet move before his mind does and he is halfway to the ladder when it catches up. Will moving work out the pain in his muscles? He knows it will only make them hurt worse. But perhaps it will work out the pain radiating inside him.

He cannot find the source. So much hurts. One can say that there is a pain in his stomach. A tightening in his chest. An ache in his heart. A lump in his throat. A buzzing in his ears. A whirlwind in his mind.

He has all these things and more.

When he closes his eyes all he can see is that room again. All he knows is begging Bruce to leave him be. To go so he won’t die to. To run. To leave him alone. All he wants is Bruce beside him. Holding him. Telling him it will be okay. That everything will be alright. He wishes he were a child again, still on the road with his mom and dad. Before they fell. Before Bruce. And Robin. And every succeeding moment after that. He wants to be happy again, and Dick fears deep in his gut that he never will.

One hand reaches out for the bottom rung and grips it. The smooth metal is cold under his bare palm. His other hand touches the second rung and he begins to lift himself up. One rung after another. As his arches curl around the rungs he knows he is not wearing the right shoes for this, and he doesn’t care. Nothing he is wearing is right for this. He is wearing a hoodie and pants stolen from the safehouse, and the only shoes that fit, because Bruce would not let him out and he needed to move.

The ladder groans, and he is only halfway up. He knows he should have checked it before climbing. Checked it for safety, to make sure there is no rust or loose bolts. To make sure the wires are strong and not tattered. He does not care. There is so little he cares about anymore, why should this be one of the things?

His hand meets air and it has not groaned again. He is at the top. He knows that reaching the top means not moving at least for a moment and he almost climbs back down just to do it. But that will not be the movement he wants. He wants to fly. He wants his muscles to remember what it’s like to cling to a bar as they move across thin air.

Dick pulls himself up and stands on the platform looking out across the space before him. The empty air between stands seems to stretch beyond the confines of the tent. He knows they do not, but what does that matter right now? Far or close there is still empty air between him and the next platform, and he is still standing still.

He died.

The reality hits him in a bubble of hilarity, and he cannot stop the laughter from breaking past his lips. His body doubles over on the platform as his chest seeps pain in the form of mirth. His face breaking open like those red lips and sharp teeth. Like Heretic had laughed and laughed. Like the smile Luthor had given him as he’d approached, hand smothering Dick’s face, forcing a pill down his throat.

Dick knows that if Bruce had not been there Luthor would have left him dead.

The thought sobers him, the laughs bubbling into a sob he refuses to release. He swallows it, straightening.

 _Move._ He tells himself. _Just move. It will all go away if you can move. The coffin can’t hold you back if you keep moving._

He reaches out for the bar of the trapeze and holds it. He should at least powder his hands. Is there even powder here? He finds it, hooking the bar under his arm and whites the palms of his hands, staring at them.

Would Bruce have killed Luthor for letting him stay dead? He had not killed the Joker over Jason. He had not killed Talia or Heretic over—

That wasn’t Bruce’s fault. Or Talia’s. It was Dick’s. All Dick’s fault. So much is Dick’s fault he knows that if he looks it straight in the eyes he will shatter. Instead, he slips the bar back into his hands and holds it tight, the veins of his knuckles showing up under skin thinned from pain.

_Move._

He is in the air. His stomach in his throat because of adrenaline instead of pain and tears. His muscles revel in the familiar action. The moment he is on the other platform he turns and flies again. Nothing fancy just yet. He is still remembering the feeling of flight.

Once more. Then twice. Three times and he is ready.

He flips, turns, one hand moving over the other. Then he lifts himself up, holding his chest above the bar, and still he flies.

_Faster._

It is a routine from when he was a child. Not the routine, the one that his parents had died doing. This one was for fun. One still engrained into his mind and muscles even years later. One that is not tainted with death and blood and falling.

Did anyone know he’d died? Of course they think he is dead now, but would they know he’d really died? He would inevitably come back (unless he doesn’t, unless he leaves. If he runs he can keep moving). Would he ever tell anyone that his heart stopped, and he’d seen the light? A tunnel that expanded out and out and out beyond the bounds of reason.

Dick had been close. So close to everything he wanted. His mom. His dad. His, his, his--

His arms burn.

That does not matter. He steps back off the platform and completes the routine again. And again. And again. Sweat coats the bar, but he will not fall from that. Not with a little more chalk.

The trapeze groans at him again. That too is fine. It is still remembering how to work. Dick is still remembering how to fly.

He has lost so much. He cannot afford to forget how to fly.

Dick did not think he was going to lose anything ever again. His hope had returned. Bruce had come back. He’d been lost, and Tim had been right, and he had come back. Bruce came back. Which meant everything would be okay again, right?

He hates that he was so wrong.

Bruce being back should have meant things between Dick and Tim would be okay again. They should have meant Jason could feel comfortable at home again. They should have meant the family would be whole again. They should have meant everything was right.

Then Joker.

And Talia.

And then the League went missing with the crime syndicate to replace them.

And Dick died.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he got to die and come back. That Bruce could go missing and come back. That Jason got to die and come back. That any of them died.

It wasn’t fair that he had to lose his-- That he had to give him up when Bruce came back. That he had to be hurt by Joker and Talia and that Dick had to lose him. That he couldn’t even be dead long enough to see him again. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t-

It is not fair.

That he had to lose Damian and not get him back.

That he lost Damian and now he must live without him.

That everyone else got someone back.

It is Dick’s fault. All of this is Dick’s fault. The shattered tent around him. The broke boy of his memories.

If Dick had not come back to the circus. If he had not been searching for his past, and for some joy they would not be gone. Joker would not have attacked, and none of this would have happened. If Dick had been a little more firm with Damian. If he hadn’t been knocked out. If he’d tried just a little harder. If he’d been dead a little longer, at least then he could have seen his baby brother one more time. Said sorry. Told Damian just how much he loved him. Just how grey his world was without his sunshine in it.

The line snaps.

Dick hears it before he feels it. His stomach catches in his throat and his hands drop from the bar. He falls. Instinct makes him tuck and roll, but he fumbles it. He splays on the ground, arms flat around him. Everything hurts, and not because he fell. Everything hurts, and he cannot move.

Everything hurts. It shouldn’t. He did not fall that far.

He wishes he’d fallen further. He hates that he wishes he’d fallen further. Maybe if he had it would have hurt for a moment and be gone back into the light. Back with everyone he should have been with when Luthor smothered the life out of him.

Dick wants to cry, but he finds he has shoved the tears so far down into his chest he cannot dig them back out. Maybe that is for the best. Maybe it is best not to care. If he does not care, he cannot hurt.

Is numbness better than pain?

The phone in Dick’s pocket begins to buzz. Somehow it did not break in the fall. He pulls it out and see’s Bruce’s name printed across the screen. His thumb brushes the icon to take the call and he presses the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I need you in the cave.” Bruce’s tone is urgent.

Dick realizes he must finally have decided what to do with him. He’s settled on the best way to monopolize Dick’s death. How to get the very most out of it. He should be furious. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I’ll be there in twenty.” Dick says, and hangs up before Bruce can.

Whatever he has for him, Dick will take. It is sure to be dangerous. And hard. And lonely. And Dick hopes it will make him forget. Forget Luthor and the syndicate. Forget dying. Forget losing Damian. Forget how broken the family is.

He hopes is it is a mission that will keep him moving.


End file.
